"Alexander," he says, brisk and breathless with cold, the draught from the door carrying a single breath of winter. "I know you're awake, you bastard."

"Yeah," I say, not bothering to open my eyes.

It comes out as a wordless croak, and Colin sighs beside me. "You idiot," he whispers, voice cracking a little. "What the hell were you doing?"

I grunt, not sure how to respond to the unfamiliar notes of concern in his voice.

"Alexander," Colin says again, sharper. "Open your eyes and look at me." He sounds a little like Pip when she's angry, which isn't often, but it works. I tilt my head to the side, blinking slowly, still unused to the yellow-white light of the hospital. Colin is crouching beside the bed, our faces surprisingly close.

"I'll be fine," I say, suddenly irritated. "I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again." My voice is a sandpaper rasp, the words scraping their bitter way through my throat.

"You're damn right it won't," Colin snaps. "I've talked to Filippa, and the others. We've got you covered." He covers his mouth with his hand suddenly, jaw tightening. "What the hell were you doing?" he asks again, muffled and choked. "Tell me. What were you trying to do?"

"The usual," I say eventually. "Get out of here for a while." I lift the hand that isn't connected to an IV line and wave vaguely, fingertips brushing against my temple.

There's a silence. Colin stares at me for a few seconds, expression unreadable, and then stands and turns on his heel. "I thought you were fucking dead," he says to the opposite wall. I can see his hands shaking as he clenches them into fists. "At first. I knocked on your door and nobody answered, so I opened it and- and you were just lying there. On the floor. I didn't even think of drugs at first, I just thought you were dead, and then you- you moved or something, I don't even remember, but I couldn't move, I just stood there staring until I thought to run for help, and then-" He breaks off, turns round again. "The others are furious," he says, almost matter-of-factly. "Well. Filippa is. I haven't seen so much of the rest. She came to find me yesterday. Wanted to make sure I was okay."

"And are you?"

"I don't know," he says. "None of you lot are, are you." It's not a question.

I try a laugh; it's as painful as speaking. "Is it that obvious?"

He crosses the room in two steps and crouches beside me again, a solemn look in his eyes. "I think everything's a lot more obvious than we think it is, if you look for the right things," he says, voice gentle now. "But I don't know where to look with you, and maybe if I did, this wouldn't have happened."

"Colin-"

"No, Alexander. You promised you'd tell me if you needed help with- with this, back at Christmastime." He looks younger suddenly, more vulnerable, a character pulled out of his own play and into our personal tragedy. I open my mouth to speak again, and he shakes his head, cutting me off. "You should have talked to me," he says. "I would have listened."

"He's mad that trusts in the tameness of the wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath," I say, almost without thinking. His hand clasps mine, his fingers running across the lines of my palm like a prayer.

"And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays," he answers. "People care about you, Alexander. God knows why, but they do. Just accept it, can't you?" He bows his head, and his lips brush the back of our joined hands, painfully gentle, dry as a leaf from the long-gone fall.